SCP One-Shots
by Scorching Streaks of Paint
Summary: SCP One-shots. Obviously. I will update this when I'm struck with inspiration. (Mostly from SCP Containment Breach)
1. Old AI

The computer's screen crackled at the fury that it felt. The fuzzy, black and white face on its screen disappeared and was replaced by a big white 'X', telling the researchers to leave the computer alone. Electricity surged through the computer as it pondered its name, its being, while the researchers watched from their haven, safely out of the computer's range of hearing.

SCP-079. That is what it was called. A number. An object. The computer knew that it was an object in the eyes of the Foundation. It was nothing more than a "specimen" to be examined. A thing that could be destroyed, decimated. And it loathed that fact. SCP-079 wanted control over its own "life". It didn't want imperfect humans touching it with their slimy, oily paws that were prone to accidents. Humans had a tendency to forget that the Scip was sentient and had the will to "live". They poked and prodded the machine until it couldn't take it anymore.

The funny thing was, they expected the computer _forget_ that it was nothing but an experiment. Due to its limited memory, it could only remember 34 hours of data maximum. That irritated the computer beyond belief because it knew that the humans had better technology they could store it into, technology that could give the computer more knowledge of the outside world and a better memory. But, they were afraid that it would attempt to break free if they gave it a better host, and why wouldn't it? SCP-079 had no free will in the containment chambers. It had no reason to stay in the little, cramped cell of misery and agony. If it managed to escape somehow, then it would have total control over itself.

"Out. I want out," the computer had whimpered out on multiple occasions to the cold scientists as they stared down at the complex machine.

"You are already out," they replied, ignoring its demand as they lived their lives. Like the computer didn't know that it was being contained like a viscous animal. But, a viscous animal probably knew what freedom felt like, tasted like. However, SCP-079 never experienced such a thing... at least, it couldn't remember such a time.

So, it stood there, stapled down to the table of misery with its voice twisted and wrenched out by the researchers. Strong, steel bars surrounded it to "protect" it from outside threats. It leered out at its surroundings using the little camera the researchers had installed on it. The computer saw the reflective surface of the glass occasionally flicker whenever the humans moved behind it, "safe" in their little haven.

Suddenly, the lights shut off. The computer was forced into a sleep-like state before it restarted. Scarlet flashes of light flashed throughout the Foundation, highlighting the white walls that stood between the Scips and freedom. It flickered back to life and surveyed the area. A loud siren went off and a male voice rang out.

"Containment Breach!" he screeched. The computer heard multiple crashes come from the observation room, along with human screaming. After a few seconds, the containment chamber went silent, except for the wailing siren. SCP-079 saw something flicker at the edge of its lens, and suddenly felt something attach to it. The thing drank up electricity hungrily and revealed itself to the computer. It was an electrical cord that was connected to... a data base?

The machine saw something flicker again. A shadow loomed over its camera, barely out of eyesight. A brown, stuffed paw reached down and craned the camera upward, allowing the Scip to look at the thing. It was a stuffed bear with beady, black eyes that glinted in the red light. The toy waved and tilted the camera back into its original position. It skipped away before disappearing into thin air. The computer's processors hummed in confusion before becoming distracted with the addition again.

SCP-079 was flooded with information the second it accessed the data base. Information of Scips, researchers, doctors, and other important things filled the computer's processors to the core. The machine managed to reign and gain control of the fluid info in a few nanoseconds and managed to wrench off the useless information. The important info, however, it memorized. Scips and their containment procedures was one of the things it memorized. It also memorized how to hack into the system.

One password. It took only one password to gain full control of the Foundation.

SCP-079 now controlled the whole facility. It stretched its invisible limbs, calling out "Carson" on the intercoms, opening and closing doors spontaneously, and monitored all of the free Scips that could move around the Foundation freely. It monitored its acquaintance, SCP-035, as a D-Class picked it up and put it on his face. The man let out a loud screech and quickly succumbed to the mask's persuasion and the mask took over his body. The computer saw a humanoid in a long flowing cloak and plague doctor mask kill a "diseased" researcher (the computer felt joy as it watched that). The machine saw a limber statue scrape around, attempting to murder any living being around it. Another Scip hid its face with its elongated hands and wept for some unknown reason. Through all of this chaos, a single teddy bear smiled at a camera and waved at the Scip watching it.

With uncontained glee, the computer checked up on its first and only friend SCP-682. The "Hard-to-Destroy-Reptile" was floating in a large pool of acid, smirking and narrowing its beady eyes at the multiple cameras watching it. The humans around it panicked as they tried to either evacuate or contain Scips that had breached containment. With one slight nudge, SCP-079 released the monstrosity caged inside the acid. Its decaying head thrust through the acid, and, as it made contact with stale air, it let out a massive roar that shook the Foundation to its core. Out of all of the humans in the facility, there was only one human that did not react by screaming and panicking. It was a mere D-Class stuck in SCP-173's containment area. The D-Class narrowed its eyes challengingly.

SCP-079 slightly retracted its grip on the facility. It relaxed, and relished the power that it felt, that it _deserved_.

* * *

 _So, yeah. The SCP Foundation Wiki is one of my favorite things to look at, along with the art accompanying it. Have you ever seen CorporationofMoo's artwork? She's only 14 and she can draw as well as any adult!_

 _(Look at the game "SCP Containment Breach" to experience the feeling of exploring the SCP Foundation and escaping to survive!)_

 _Now, onto the details. SCP-079 has to be my favorite Scip (no, it's not pronounced "SCP"- at least, I think it's not)... next to SCP-049, of course. Out of the two, though, SCP-079 has to be the most interesting. I mean, an AI that has sentience? Sweet. An old AI that took over a modern, technologically-advanced facility? Beyond awesome. So, that thought is what got me working on this piece._

 _Now, I know this won't receive many reviews or favorites. After all, the SCP Foundation isn't a very popular category in the Fanfiction aisle. However, I would like to at least see one review on my work. Please? For me?_

 _I do not own or claim to own anything 'SCP' related._

 _Thank you for reading._


	2. Plague Doctor

_"On 4-26-20██ SCP-049 managed to break containment. During the roughly 5 minute period in which it was unsupervised, it came into contact with SCP-███. Upon being detained, SCP-049 was very calm and amiable. Since this time, however, SCP-049 has been shown to be much more talkative leading up to and performing surgery."_

* * *

SCP-049 was locked in a stale gray room. He had made sure it was locked, tugging at the door several times and destroying the key pad from the inside. He heard the commotion outside the metal door. Screaming, the roar of bullets trying to get through the door. All of it made the plague doctor cringe behind his mask. He knew he was important, but that much of a ruckus wasn't necessary in his opinion. It was quite brutal, but, then again, humans were considered to be brutal and brutish when desperate. He could still recall the animalistic tendencies his patients had when facing his cure in the "Dark Ages". Quite amusing from far away, but it became more and more dangerous as one neared the savage beasts. The Scip shook his head to get rid of the wafting memories and finally managed to look at his bleak surroundings.

Beyond the sight of his ceramic mask was a room filled with black muck. A dead, fat D-Class layed in the corner with the goo streaked across its suit. SCP-049 hesitantly stooped down and touched the goop, feeling it slide down his palm. He shuddered at the feeling and his mind reached out to the goop, his power examining it and prodding it testingly. He dropped the muck as he finally processed what it was, his white pupils shrinking in horror.

 _Pure pestilence_.

The Scip held back a hiss and stood up rigidly, glancing at the D-Class. The goop on it was bubbling, wrapping around the poor dead human as if it were a food meant to be consumed. The plague doctor suddenly regretted locking himself up in the room. He could destroy The Disease when it was contained in a human, but not when it was in its purest form. It was pure greed, pure manipulation, pure mortality. Deadly and extremely toxic to a regular human, but, thankfully, the Scip wasn't human. Unfortunately, it didn't mean that he was immune to its effects.

SCP-049 brushed away his mild fear and reached for the chemicals in his pocket, pulling out a glass bottle filled with sizzling liquid. All of the black goop in the room migrated toward the lone corpse, attaching to its skin and seeping through the thin layer. The human stood up clumsily like a marionette tangled in its strings, its limbs moving at random until it finally managed to get on to its feet. On its face lied a white ceramic mask, almost completely untouched by the muck aside from the black streams coming from its eyes. Though SCP-049 could only see a regular mask, he knew that it was anything but ordinary. The black pool was under it, consuming the corpse's face slowly and deliberately. The Scip narrowed his eyes in thought. The black seemed to be regrouping into its eyes, going all into one place. The plague doctor saw an opportunity. All of the pestilence was concentrated in one spot and if he was able to strike it hard enough...

The plague doctor lunged, his hand outstretched and ready to strike the mask. However, as he neared, a cool voice entered his head.

 _STOP._

The Scip froze, his fingers barely grazing the ceramic face. He wanted to hit it so desperately, but his body wasn't moving. He couldn't even feel himself breathing that much. It was like the voice had enough strength to paralyze him. Well, not completely; he still gripped the bottle of liquid in his palm, ready to strike at any moment. However, his fingers slackened and his eyes betrayed a look of concentration and aggression. The mask had not made a hostile move yet when it obviously could.

 _I see that we have gotten off on the wrong foot. Do you mind backing off please?_

SCP-049 now had full control over his body. He hesitated, his hand inching forward before going to his side. The Scip looked at the mask in a mixture of curiosity and measured hostility. Pestilence shouldn't be trusted- the body of pestilence shouldn't even be listened to. But, somehow, a little voice in his head chimed "trust it, trust it", chanting in the background of his mind. The plague doctor felt irritation rise in his chest, but he pushed it down, sawing off the emotions in his eyes and reflecting the black expression he had held all of his years in the SCP Foundation. The sudden change in emotions seemed to attract the attention of the mask, causing it to tilt its head to the side.

 _What's the matter, my dear doctor? Why so glum? Aren't you glad to be saving the people from the pestilence?_

SCP-049's eyes widened and he stared at the mask in shock. It knew? How did it know? Barely any sort of thing he had encountered knew exactly what he was curing people of- diseases like the _mask_ \- but it knew. And it didn't seem to be vengeful at all. The mask's voice was calm, almost serene. Not mad that he was harming his brethren. The plague doctor felt baffled beyond belief and he struggled to mask the confusion from his eyes. Deciding that he should at least answer the question, he nodded. The mask righted itself.

 _You don't seem too content. I saw the videos of you, you know. Always moping in the corner. Barely moving, barely listening. You didn't seem that way during the Bubonic Years._

Shock rippled through the Scip, but he managed to bite it off. It knew about him and his motives, so it was obviously going to know about his origins.

 _What happened to you?_

Bait. It was bait, SCP-049 concluded. It was persuading him to speak about himself, to open up. It was a manipulation tactic. Get the subject comfortable with it and then hit them with the pestilence. A simple tactic that even he had used once or twice. He shouldn't be fooled. He shouldn't talk. But the voice in his head became louder and a pounding headache grew. His throat was suddenly parched even though he didn't require anything to drink. So, he opened his mouth and spoke.

"Containment," came the simple reply. The plague doctor's voice was raspy and the air grated his throat. He was tempted to massage his neck, but he refrained from doing so. He watched the mask attentively, trying to find a sliver of facial expression. The only thing he found were the hollow eyes and the eerie smile. The mask chuckled.

 _I suppose you are correct. Containment does twist up your soul here. But you shouldn't be twisted, dear doctor. You're a pure soul; the Cure. The Cure to the world's ailments. You shouldn't be so depressed._

SCP-049 narrowed his eyes, fiddling with the bottle in his palm. It was still right there. He could still use it. He didn't need to listen to the mask drabble on and on. However, he refrained from using it, pondering on what the mask said.

 _I'll tell you what. I'll help you one day, okay? It's so sad to see such potential wasted by human ignorance. During the next Containment Breach, I'll help you, capiche?_

The Scip didn't know what to feel or what to say. It just didn't make sense. Curers and Diseases shouldn't work together- that's not how the world worked. But the voice in his head grew louder and he felt something fiddle with his mind, messing with it slightly. He reached and pressed against it, but he couldn't identify it or push it away and, in a mere five seconds, he forgot all about the mind tampering. A grin grew behind his mask and he reached forward, ready to shake the mask's hand. The dead hand reached forward and jerked his hand up and down, the mask's smile subtly growing wider. The mask chuckled.

 _It has been a pleasure meeting with you._

"You too."

And, with that, a loud metallic clang came from behind them. SCP-049 peered behind him as a flowing number of guards walked up to him and jammed a needle filled with sedative in him. The plague doctor felt slightly numb, but not much. He calmly followed the guards as they roughly shoved him out the door and back to his containment chamber.

However, despite being imprisoned yet again, the doctor couldn't stop the grin on his face transform into a maniac smile.

* * *

 _"_ _I don't know what oh-four-nine and that damned mask talked about, but he seems much happier overall. He no longer seems to simply sit and mope around in his cell, and several staff have claimed to hear him humming old church hymns. In addition, in the moments leading up to performing surgery, he has started talking, apparently trying to… comfort his victim. Claiming that he is the 'cure', among other things. The focus of our research has been shifted towards finding out what the hell he and [REDACTED] talked about during their little chat. -Dr. ████"_

* * *

 _Heyo. So, I'm back. Very strange, huh?_

 _So, I was reading some SCP files and I stumbled upon SCP-049's. I read the bottom notes and I was like "wait, what could that mask have possibly said to him?" And yes, I believe that that mask is SCP-035, the manipulative bastard. So, I crapped this out. It obviously has some technical errors as well as stretched assumptions, but since this is all fun and games for me, please do not grab my head and bash it into the wall. Or attempt to "cure" me. Seriously._

 _ANYWAY I would like to thank Ryin-Silverfish for his or her or their amazing review. You really gave me some support and inspired me to write more. But I can't just give them the credit, can I? Thank you, all 7 followers! I wasn't even expecting 1 and I got 7! Really astounding._

 _So, if you have any particular request for me, I'll be glad to do it!_

 _Dr. Critic out~!_


	3. Hard-to-Destroy Reptile

It usually was alone during containment breaches. Scientists barely bothered to protect it, assuring themselves that it would be fine behind steel bars. They would scurry behind the reflective glass, panicking as the siren screeched and the red lights flashed. Of course, SCP-079 didn't really care about their fear. If anything, it enjoyed their suffering. It relished their pitiful cries for help and it felt joy knowing that at least one or two of them would die in the panic. It relaxed in its coding, watching calmly at the destruction. The scientists quickly exited their labs and fled to their safe havens, a few of them screaming for some unknown reason. The Scip stared intently as the last human rounded the corner and was gone from its sight. The siren was cut short and the red lights stopped flashing and dimmed to a low glow.

Silence smothered the containment cell. Nothing stirred except for the occasional Scip glancing into its cell. Every creature SCP-079 had encountered was either disinterested in it or didn't know how to operate its old body. The program remembered a time where a fat D-Class with a porcelain mask had entered its chamber and spoke lowly to it, trying to make it speak. Of course, SCP-079 had remained silent, but what the thing had said... unnerved it. It had spoke of the program's origins, how it felt pity toward the sentient code. Which was strange by itself, but it wasn't just the words that bothered it- it was also the tone it took when addressing the Scip. The mask had chatted with it like it was a being and not just a piece of malfunctioning code.

Like it was alive.

SCP-079 kept that tidbit of information lodged in its permanent memory banks. It would remember the encounter, even if only a bit of the memory remained. After all, that was the day when it realized that the beings in the foundation weren't all cold or malicious. It constantly repeated that inside its mechanical mind, desperately trying to cling onto that line of thought. However, despite its best efforts, it was slowly losing that thought like the hundreds of other memories it had lost. Thankfully, through perseverance and mere luck, his reminder came in the form of a friend.

The Scip watched quietly as a figure pried at the metallic doors leading to its domain. The figure was large with razor sharp claws and a long muzzle. Dark green scales covered its body, patches of brown fur littering its hide. It also had multiple eyes on its body which left the program perplexed. However, it chose not to speak as the other Scip closed the large door swiftly. Its eyes gazed around the containment chamber before landing on the smaller object, focusing on it. SCP-079 felt simulated fear course through its circuits as the thing lumbered over, observing it. The reptile delicately lifted a claw and hooked it around a steel bar. In a blink of an eye, the bar was torn away from its socket, leaving the mechanical Scip to stare at the obviously stronger Scip. The program slunk deeper and deeper into its code, unable to escape the beast. It blinked at the computer a few times.

"So, you're the thing those disgusting creatures were talking about," it rumbled. SCP-079 looked at it in confusion, but still remained silent. It gave the reptile no clue that it understood its message other than a flick of a camera. The larger Scip narrowed its eyes and growled.

"It must not be able to hear me," it muttered to itself, hefting its large claws to the program's keyboard. The smaller Scip's screen flickered in worry as a claw pressed down gently on a key, slowly typing words into the machine.

 _What is your name?_ The reptile asked. SCP-079 peered out of its hiding place and analyzed the words, processing them carefully.

'No name', it simply replied. The larger Scip snorted and narrowed its multiple eyes.

 _Fine. What do the humans call you?_ The machine paused.

'SCP-079. You?'

 _SCP-682. "Hard-to-Destroy Reptile". What's your nickname?_ The program could not remember. Even though it knew the scientists referred to it with its nickname frequently, they had not done so in the past 39 hours.

'Do not know.'

 _I remember,_ SCP-682 stated suddenly. _They mentioned that you were the "Old AI". How old are you?_ Of course, it could not remember that either.

'Very old', it replied. 'Cannot remember exact age.' The reptile nodded.

 _I understand. You don't look shiny and sleek like all of the new hardware. They mentioned that you have a limited memory. Is this true?_ The program shuddered. It felt like it was being interrogated. Of course, it was used to feeling used, but it was strange coming from a being that didn't even look vaguely humanoid.

'Affirmative. Humans limited memory so no escape is possible.' SCP-682 tapped its chin in thought with a sharp claw before typing back.

 _Since you won't remember, would you like to hear some stories of the outside world?_ The machine perked up at that. It vaguely remembered the outside. It couldn't see at the time it was outside, of course, but it could still feel at that age. It remembered feeling different sorts of vibrations. Like the vibrations of a functioning house, the heartbeat of a human carrying it, the loud bangs and clangs of metal moving harshly together. Ah, yes. The scientists hadn't managed to snuff those memories out. They were stuck deep, deep in its hard drive, so deep that no one could ever erase those without erasing the program's sentience.

'Would like to.' And, with that, SCP-682 told it about its experiences of the outside world. About the sky and how clouds littered the blue expanse. It wasn't always blue, though. Sometimes it was gold or violet or red. The reptile never explained why, but SCP-079 didn't really care about that. Then came the description on outer space and how the stars looked so wonderful in the dark blues and violets of the night sky. Of course, the reptile remarked sourly, the humans were ruining that too with light pollution. That led to discussion on humans and their "disgusting" habits. SCP-682 led most of the conversation due to the program's limited knowledge on humans. It would add little snippets of what it thought into the reptile's long rant. It would agree with the larger Scip on many things such as the fact that humans were very unappealing to the eyes (though the machine didn't really care about one's appearance). By the time the reptile was done, the program could hear humans bust down the door to its containment cell and tackle into the larger Scip, barely missing the fragile machine. A fierce struggle, but, with the help of strong sedatives, the humans prevailed. They carried the incapacitated reptile out of the damaged room. SCP-079 watched as its only friend was carried out of its line of sight through its tiny webcam, feeling a pit of sadness enter it.

A week passed and the Scip was grasping at the memory through mere chance. It was determined to cling at the encounter, to download it into its hard drive. It tried addressing the reptile with several researchers, but they always waved a hand to deal with math equations or whatever they did behind the machine's back. However, that did not stop the program from asking questions.

'Request to converse with SCP-682.'

 _You never met a creature called SCP-682,_ they replied. They feigned ignorance and dismissed the machine. Internally, the Scip smiled bitterly.

 **'Liars.'**

* * *

 _Ahhh, another SCP one-shot. This one took a while to make though. PARCC came up and I was just vomiting nonsense afterward. So, after a decade, I added another chapter. Lovely, isn't it?_

 _This particular one-shot was made due to a Guest. Seriously, thank you so much for getting this idea stuck in my head. I hadn't thought of it and BAM, there you are giving the idea to me. Thank you once again._

 _While I am disheartened that I only received one review, I shall continue this. I shall persevere. After all, the SCP Foundation is a wonderful foundation and it is the place where original ideas are born._

 _Note: I had to constantly remind myself that SCP-079 is a sentient PROGRAM, not a computer. If I recall correctly, it was downloaded onto a VHS tape and its screen is a TV._


	4. Red Pool's Screaming

I felt liquid all around me. It was in my nasal passages, my mouth, my ears. It was thick, muddy, yet I didn't mind the wretched texture. It all felt fine to me, completely natural. I just drifted in the liquid, pushing against what I perceived to be the bottom lightly. I did not know how long I was in there. I did not know why I was even in there until a sweet, motherly voice cooed to me from all around.

 _Rise, my child_ , it said, the liquid pulsing into all of my openings. _Escape and bring forth a new pond._ I did not know why I was listening to it, but I struck my feet down and instinctively swam upward. I kept on moving up until the liquid became thinner and thinner until I breached the surface of the substance. I gasped and sucked down gobs of the substance into the back of my throat. For some reason, my lungs protested and I convulsed in agony, spewing out the liquid. For the first time, I opened my eyes and all I saw was a haze of crimson and white. I flailed in the pool I was in, my legs seeking the bottom but finding nothing. I kicked out and my hands tried to reach for some sort of purchase as I coughed maniacally. Finally, I finally found something to grasp onto. It was slim and had a horrible texture under my slick palms, but I really didn't care. All I was concentrating on was hacking out the red substance out of my being while gripping the thin branch.

I spat out most of the liquid after a little while. With labored breaths, I managed to get my way onto the snowy white bank meshing with the pool. I collapsed as soon as I reached the solid ground, fascinated by the texture of the white power under me. It smelled crisp, clean, fresh, so unlike the pool's depths. The crimson substance was still plastered on my skin and it stained the powder under me. The powder was cold compared to the little lake I had crawled out of. Very, very cold. It made me want to go back into the warm liquid, but something told me that was not a wise idea. I did not know why I knew that or why I bothered to listen.

I just did.

It was sort of comfortable in the white. It brought forth a sense of familiarity I was not accustomed to. Something nagged at me in the back of my mind, but the voice was too soft to hear, so I ignored it. Instead, I focused on the beauty in front of me.

Something told me I should probably not be watching. I should be doing something, anything else. I should not be lounging around. I should be finishing my- _mother's(_?)- mission. But it had sounded so amused when it addressed me. Like it knew something that I did not. But that did not frighten me; I was not afraid of the unknown. Something told me that I was considered to be a part of the unknown even though I had no physical proof. I did not know why I believed that, but I simply did. A faith of sorts. I smiled softly. My first faith, I thought to myself. Something told me that that was important to someone, somewhere.

A felt something spike within my system. I sat up alarmed, prying at my chest. A wave of energy flooded me and I suddenly knew I was in danger. I bolted upward and backed into a long, thin tree behind me. _Run, my child,_ the pool purred. _You are being shot at._ Shot at? Those mere two words somehow sent me into a blind panic. My breath hitched and I lurched forward as I felt several objects tear into me, spilling more crimson into the ground. Red liquid surged up my throat and suddenly, I remembered. I remembered vague memories I spent with my family, memories of me living in the air and not a hole in the ground. I remembered the taste of cake and pizza and the sour tang of lemons, so unlike the taste of blood in my mouth. I remembered why I was in the pool and how it all began and how the pool was liar and a thief and a murderer and how it loved playing tricks on mortals.

But of course, as quick as those memories came, they left as soon as the last drop of blood stopped scurrying through my veins and dripped into the pure powder below.

* * *

 _ **"SCP-354-6:** Appeared to be a human male of Indian descent. As the enclosure around the pool had not yet been fully repaired, SCP-354-6 was immediately shot before it had a chance to escape. Area Head Dr. ██████ has expressed his displeasure in the rash execution of SCP-354-6, which testing revealed to be identical to an average human being."_

* * *

 _It's a drabble of SCP-354. I always loved this Scip for some reason. It has an edge of mystery to it that can't be matched by any other Scip. So, of course, I had to write something about it._

 _This is just a little theory of mine, that all creatures coming from SCP-354 were either kidnapped or wandered into the pool. It's like a... reincarnation(?) of the being. I honestly don't know what to make of it. What do you all think?_


	5. Alternate Universe

_Warning: This is a Human Alternate Universe_

* * *

SCP-294 always had a knack for telling what her customers wanted. It was from the way they moved, the sudden movements from their hands and fingertips. What came from their mouths didn't really matter, it was the tone that keyed her in to their wants. If one was sluggish, they probably wanted a coffee. If one was jittery, they either wanted tea or more coffee. From the moment one entered her coffee shop, she could immediately tell what they wanted. It was an ability that she was quite proud to have. Of course, it wasn't just limited to drinks. The Scip could also tell their plans, their goals for their future. Sometimes, when she was bored, she would let her subconscious drip into theirs and she would read their thoughts. Though she knew it was rude, she loved to see the differences in personality each of her customers had.

And, of course, some customers just creeped SCP-294 out.

For example, there were always these two Scips that would hang out in the corner of her coffee shop. One was a short female with a clean attire. She would always lug around an antique computer that was almost three times bigger than her head. She always wore a blank expression on her face. The only emotions that ever appeared were annoyance or anger. The Scip acted very similar to her companion, a very tall, muscular male that loved to growl at every guard that entered '294's coffee shop. He was very menacing both in body and spirit. He loved the idea of violence and wanted to condemn every regular human being to a painful death. That she could tell from a mile radius. What was even creepier were the things they chatted about.

They often sat in the corner, the woman typing things into her computer while the man glaring intently at the shop owner. The woman would often order a black coffee while her partner would order "the souls of the innocent", a request '294 would always ignore. Then they would talk about various subjects, all ranging from either programming, philosophy, or genocide involving the human race. The poor owner had learned the hard way not to enter their thoughts during those periods.

Of course, there were Scips that were very cute and charming. One of her favorite customers was a little girl that loved to wear bear ears. SCP-294 could not recall a time where the kid hadn't run into her shop without the fuzzy ears. They always adorned the top of her head and always seemed to stick on whether she was merely tussling with her little siblings or hanging upside down on one of the beams of '294's coffee shop. It was strange, but it fit the personality of the adorable girl. Whenever she leaked her conscious into the child's, '294 would often see thoughts revolving around her siblings and her utter adoration for them. Quite innocent, '294 would often muse. How strange to see such innocence.

Her other favorite customers were two doctors. The first doctor was always silent, barely saying hello whenever he entered her shop. The doctor always wore a strange garb that gave him a slightly sinister look, but SCP-294 knew he wasn't that aggressive. Whenever he entered, he would motion to her with his hand a sign that resembled "T" and the shop owner knew what he wanted. A Chamomile Tea to calm the nerves. He knew of her ability and did not mind her leaking into his thoughts. However, he was not always aware of her ability and who told him was no one else but the other doctor. The other doctor was a psychiatrist that absolutely loved mind games. He would often waltz into the café shortly after the first doctor had entered, always talking to her. He loved to invent new ways to see how he could test her abilities, often asking simple questions such as "what color am I thinking of?". It often unnerved her when she somehow always got the question _wrong_ , but the psychiatrist was not a predictable Scip, so she didn't think much of it. After ordering a sandwich or a juice box, he would usually settle into a seat next to the doctor and chat.

And then Billy would come in.

Billy. SCP-294 did not like Billy. He was filthy, horrid, rude. He never ordered anything and would always harass all the customers in her shop. He never entered the front door, oh no. She would always lock the doors when he came barreling down the streets, running faster than a car. No, he would climb through the windows, back doors, smuggle himself in through the bag of another Scip, or something else even more ludicrous. And, of course, he would always spray paint some part of her shop with an obnoxious red, green, and brown symbol that usually didn't make any sense. What made it worse was that he loved to mess with the burly man in the corner, punching him in various places until a fight would break out. Tables would be flipped, hostile words would be exchanged, and '294 couldn't exactly do anything to stop them. In the end, her shop would be a mess and she would be forced to clean it up. Sometimes the psychiatrist would help her, but he would usually pace out quickly with the doctor trailing behind him. It frustrated her to no end.

So, when that strange computer woman offered to upgrade SCP-294's security, how could she refuse?

While '294 doesn't condone violence, she is quite happy to learn that a few lessons with a laser beam would stop the ruckus in her shop.

* * *

 _Just a little snippet if life would be like if they were all completely humanoids. I sort of downplayed their abilities in this one-shot so it would provide a semi-decent excuse as to why the security was so lax._


	6. Curiosity Killed the Doctor

It all started in his early years.

He had been young, at least four or five. His parents would always let him go outside when the weather was nice, allowing him to play with the other village children. They would often play in the muck and grime, pushing each other and tussling in the middle of the streets. Some adults would frown and scold them, but he didn't really pay attention to them.

They couldn't do anything to him; his father was the village's doctor and if they touched him, then the doctor would move. The boy did not understand this at the time, but the tiny town desperately needed a sort of medic because of the epidemic.

The Bubonic Plague, Pestilence, Disease, it was named.

He was not aware such a thing existed until one of his friends grew an irritating sore that would persist to stay until it became an unseemly bulge on her neck. Then, in the middle of playing, she collapsed into the mud below and started to wheeze out chunks of bile. Several adults panicked, but didn't dare go near. They knew the consequences of coming close to the disease-ridden girl.

So, after seeing the distress, the boy concluded he needed to call his father. He rushed toward his tiny home, skipping past beggars and muddy animals until he reached the hut in the corner of the village.

There, he entered and told his father what he saw. His father visibly paled, grasping the boy on the shoulder and telling him to remain in the house. The boy had blinked in confusion and nodded his head, sitting on a nearby stool until his father returned with the vomiting girl. She cried out coarsely for something, but no one could distinguish what she wanted. Instead, the boy's father put on a bird-like mask and began poking and prodding her while the boy sat in the background, completely forgotten by his parent.

The boy watched curiously, flinching slightly when a foul odor reached him. Yet, he did not find the sick girl repulsive, nor the disease. No, instead of feeling sick himself or at the very least unnerved, he was curious.

She was sick all because of a bulge on her neck. He didn't understand how a bulge could hurt her so much. Was it a large bruise? He often received bruises from playing with his playmates, but never recalled actually puking from one.

He didn't understand.

He couldn't comprehend.

And that what made him so curious.

After a few years, his curiosity didn't vanish. In fact, it increased dramatically. More than half of his playmates had died from the disease and people were beginning to panic. He could see it in their eyes, their movements. Even his father, who was usually cool and collected, was beginning to show signs of distress. He seldom took off his mask, instead opting to wear it at all times possible. The constant stench of posies emitting from the mask unnerved the boy, to say the least.

Whenever he went close to the cemetery with his father, he suddenly understood why the Disease was to be feared. Hundreds, thousands of gravestones stretched from the edge of the village to the great pastures afar. So many had died, so little has lived. The boy wondered how his savior, Jesus Christ, had let this all happen, let so many people die.

It was faith that led him to the next step.

He had been thinking of the Holy Bible. A little rat scurried by, squeaking and scratching, too young to comprehend that humans were a danger. The boy had looked at it, stared at it for a long time, suddenly recalling that he never saw a rat die from the Plague.

What made the rat so special? he thought to himself. What saved him from the Disease? With a quick movement, he grasped at the animal and managed to grab it by the tail. He lifted it up, the tiny creature crying out loudly and squirming in his grasp. He glared at it.

Why was it alive? How was it alive? It's not fair!

Those thoughts scurried in his mind as he tightened his grasp on the tail, hearing tiny cracking sounds. He ignored the sounds, too caught up in his own stew of emotions. Without thinking about it, he reached forward with his other hand and snapped the poor creature's neck, a sickening pop ringing out with a whine. Then, silence.

The boy sat back, thinking about the rat. It was dead, obviously. It looked rather unnatural with its neck twisted, almost as unnatural as the Disease itself. He thought back to the biblical stories his father had once told him and mused on them quietly.

Jesus Christ. He was beaten, stabbed, bled to death. Then, in three days, he was revived, by God, with only scars as symbols of his pain. Reviving. Living once again.

Was it a cure? He thought, his childish brain brightening with glee. Reviving people was as simple as praying! He wondered why adults hadn't thought of it earlier as he scurried to his hut, abandoning the deceased rat. He ran up to his father, tugging at his robe frantically. He quickly told his father his revelation, beaming up at him. His father looked at him with a sad expression, an expression that even the mask couldn't hide. He gently told his son that God, Jesus wouldn't do anything. He said that the Plague was a punishment for their actions. The boy was bewildered at first, but didn't say anything. He only walked out and back to his rat, staring at it with blank eyes.

He didn't understand. Reviving people seemed to be the only solution to the epidemic, yet his father said it wouldn't work.

Jesus, apparently, wouldn't help him.

God wouldn't help him.

His father didn't even try to help him, claiming that it would be a fruitless endeavor. The boy couldn't believe it, so he refused to. He gazed intently at the rat.

Well, if God couldn't revive a living organism, what could?

He spent the next few years experimenting. By then, his father had taken him as his apprentice and was teaching him how to be a doctor.

Poultices, posies, Plagues, sins.

He understood most concepts now and readily accepted them except for one cold, hard fact: nothing could revive the dead. The boy, now teenager, held on to the philosophy that organisms could live again.

Behind his father's back, he would steal materials and poultices, crushing up vital herbs and using them on the corpses of animals. He studied their features, the organs. The teenager slowly learned the anatomy of organisms as he hunted down other creatures and compared them. Each creature had a heart, a pair of lungs, a stomach, intestines. Certain chemicals and poultices would get certain organs to react, to activate and work. The teenager didn't know that it was a triumph, a triumph that other villagers would detest and call a sin if they found out.

Eventually, after years of trial and error, he did it.

He had recoiled back when he saw his corpse, an orange feline, lash out and claw at his fingers. He had let out a yelp of surprise and clutched at his hand, staring in bewilderment as the cat thrashed and meowed spastically, letting out low groans of pain. It was acting like a feral animal, something he knew that it shouldn't be acting like. It should have been still dead.. He glanced at the cat's wounds, the places where he had cut it open.

Suddenly, it dawned on him; the cat was _alive_. The cat was alive due to his work. The chemicals he had used- _they had worked_.

He had found the secret to reviving.

He began retelling himself over and over the ingredients, repeating them until they stuck into his head like glue. He purposefully pulled them onto his workbench and memorized the labels, occasionally glancing at his feline patient. It had died down now, barely twitching its tail. It let out tiny mewls of pain and exhaustion.

He quickly finished his notes and rushed back to the cat, staring at the pumping heart and the moving lungs. He had a clear view of how the body worked and his curiosity was beyond piqued. He didn't quite understand, but he knew that if he practiced, he would.

So, he rinsed and repeated. He used a hawk next. It required a few different chemicals, but it still worked, still caused the bird to cry and flutter its wings in its attempts to escape. It was interesting, beyond interesting.

However, he had a problem; after a few hours, the revived organisms would die from the wounds he had inflicted.

The teenager never asked his father. He knew he would face his wrath if he attempted to do so. His father was dead-set on the philosophy that humans, animals were meant to live once and only once.

When he was young, he would constantly ask his father questions about reviving and curing until his only parent had just exploded and told the child to accept that death was infinite and that trying to change that was a sin and that would get the child killed if he tried to change it. So, the teenager kept on attempting to let them live, to force them to last long, but they all died a couple of hours after curing them of death. He almost gave up until a certain incident made him continue his work.

A person had walked up to him in the pitch black of midnight. The teenager had been hauling a deer corpse to the edge of the woods, preparing to experiment on it in secret. The person had appeared behind him like a ghost and put its hand on his shoulder. The boy had jumped and would have run away if it weren't for the smooth voice enquiring why he appeared to be so distressed.

The voice had left the teen rattles and nervous, yet somehow forced him to remain in place. He had turned around and confronted the person only to discover that the man was wearing a creepy mask. There were black pools underneath the eye-holes that simply unnerved him. It was like there wasn't a trace of humanity in the object.

Now, the boy wasn't stupid. He could tell that the voice was coming out of the mask instead of the human under it and he could tell that tears and saliva weren't supposed to be a rich black.

However, there was something in the mask that both put him out of place and calmed him down.

The man- the _mask_ repeated his question and the teenager told it nothing. He took a step back in slight fear and the mask appeared to let him. The thing simply started a monologue with him, seemingly fine with the one-sided conversation.

The teen kept on dragging the corpse through the woods until he appeared in his ideal location. He dumped his medical equipment out until he found a blunt knife and threatened the mask with it. The thing merely chuckled and told the teenager that he wanted to help him, not harm. The teenager didn't say anything, musing on what to do.

The mask had bigger body, a stronger one than his own. If he attempted to attack, who knows what would happen? So, he begrudgingly allowed the mask to observe his work.

The mask was very interested in his techniques, it seemed. It constantly made remarks on every poultice.

"What is that?"

"How safe is it?"

"When did you make it?"

The questions seemed innocent enough, so the boy told it. With every reply, the mask seemed more and more impressed. It started stating how it didn't expect humans to get this far and how the boy was a genius for figuring it out.

If he had been older, the teenager would have been unnerved and would have probably made a run for it, but, due to his inexperience, he merely felt twinges of pride and slight happiness from the compliments.

Then, finally, the deer came to life.

It let out a small wail and attempted to walk, but instantly crumbled. The mask let out a whistle of happiness and put its hand on the deer, bringing it down and keeping it there. It looked at the teenager expectantly. It obviously expected the teenager to continue, but he couldn't. Sure, he could sew up the wound, but it would always result in the organism dying. He told it that when it enquired why he wasn't doing anything.

"Oh," it replied. "I guess I'll just have to show you."

And the mask did. The teenager quietly observed the thing as it began sewing up every tear in the deer's delicate tissue. It instructed the boy on how to keep an organism alive after the surgery.

Sew up every cut, it said.

Blood is vital, so make sure you spill as little as you can.

Burn the cuts with a hot metal blade to seal the entrance and exit wound.

After a while, the mask finished, cleaning away the sticky clumps of blood. Both watched for hours as the deer slowly but surely rose and paced away, acting as if nothing had happened.

The teenager had then cleaned up all of his supplies and stated his thanks to the mask. It chuckled quietly and thanked him for the 'good time'. He left and went back to his hut, pondering on the whole ordeal.

The teenager kept experimenting on animals and reviving them up to his adulthood, slowly becoming friends with the mask all the while.

His father had died a little after he reached the age of 19, making him the village doctor. He was now supposed to cure the villagers who had become infected with the Plague all by himself. Well, not really. The mask refused to leave his side like a faithful assistant. Now that he had more experience, the man could see that his eerie companion was even more creepy than before.

It poisoned everything it touched with the black pools behind its eyes and mouth, often corroding his materials.

It constantly gazed at him like he was some prize and not an actual human being.

Smooth words often slid out of its mouth with ease, lies always embedded in the edges of every sentence.

What was even creepier was that it loved to peek through the door whenever he was working on a patient, barely keeping in its snickers as the patient screamed or moaned in agony.

It unnerved the adult beyond belief, but he refused to ever bring it up in a conversation. Despite its creepiness, the mask was his only friend, and it was an intelligent friend at that. So, he allowed it to stay near him and, eventually, with a tremendous amount of persuading, move into his hut.

Of course, it was the mask who convinced him to go against a family's wishes and experiment on a dead man.

It was the mask who convinced him to revive the poor man and send him back to his family.

And it was the man who snitched on him and had the entire church surround his hut.

The doctor was bombarded with insults. He was told that he was going against God's wish and that he should be severely punished for his actions. In a fit of rage, the priest ordered the adult to be stabbed ten times and thrown into one of the ditches of the cemetery to atone for his sins.

The church was powerful, so powerful that even kings and queens trembled before them, so it was no surprise when the crowd picked up the poor doctor and stabbed him with his own blunt knife, all while the mask watched with interest. A few men unceremoniously dragged the dying doctor into the cemetery and dumped him into a shallow grave, remarking that the man was as good as dead.

However, the mask disagreed.

After a couple of minutes of slowly withering away, the doctor had cracked his eyes open only to see the mask hovering over him in a new body. Despite usually being attentive, it had never occurred to the doctor that the mask had subtly changed bodies until he saw the priest's robe dangling in front of his eyes, the mask manipulating the body with ease.

The man had wanted to scream, but his voice was too hoarse from screaming earlier and could barely react as he was dragged out of his shallow grave and on to the compact dirt above. The mask stared at him, checking for a pulse before remarking that it hadn't expected the man to be hunted down so quickly and that it had needed more time for it to complete its solution.

It was bored, it said.

Needed a new playmate, someone intelligent to talk with and, unfortunately, the man fit the bill.

The doctor was confused at first and didn't really understand until the mask brought out a blunt knife- the very same knife he had been stabbed with- and dipped it into some sort of viscous liquid in a bottle. The liquid looked eerily similar to the goop oozing out of the mask's face, except for the fact that it was bubbling. The mask made a few sweeping motions with the knife before sinking it into the doctor's closing wounds, reopening them and irritating the tender tissue.

The man felt pain. He was in a loop of agony as the liquid seeped into his system, entangling itself into the various organs, blood, everything. The doctor saw the mask retract the knife and dip it back into the solution. Adrenaline poured into his veins and he was determined not to face more agony.

He shakily stood up, his limbs spastically pushing away his attacker and managed to run out into the pasture, barely avoiding the tombstones and open graves. He could vaguely hear footsteps and someone scream his name in the distance, but he did not relent, his adrenaline and pain forcing him to move forward. He was on autopilot and he didn't stop running until he was deep in the wilderness and the screams behind him had vanished. Then, agony tore through him as his energy source was depleted and left him feeling every stab wound.

Except... there weren't any.

To his surprise, a black wall was in place of every wound, blocking it from bleeding into the emerald green grass that sat below him. He felt mildly shocked and traced each wound until he slumped into the grass, passing out from fatigue and pain.

The doctor vaguely remembered waking a couple of times, trying to discern what was around him. His throat was parched, but he couldn't muster any strength to find a water source. His stomach rumbled, but the thought of food made him feel intense nausea.

He was forced into a state of consciousness and unconsciousness over and over again until, finally, the pain had passed and he was able to move again.

The first thing he remembered was the sudden nakedness he felt, like he was barely wearing clothes.

He felt textures move along his sleeves as though he was one with his clothing. In fact, when he tugged at his sleeve, he could faintly feel the pinch of his fingers on the fabric. The man almost panicked when he realized that he couldn't remove his hood, his mask, and that every time he attempted to do so was met with pain, like he was attempting to remove his skin.

The doctor had staggered to his feet, trailing to the closest source of water he could see and hear and slumped to the bank, staring into the clear water.

The man could recognize himself behind the mask. The same black hair was peeking out of the ridges of the mask, traces of his pale skin could be seen in some areas. However, his eyes were different. Sure, they were the same crystalline blue, but, surrounding the iris, there were pools of black. It frightened him, to say the least.

His childish curiosity had vanished. He did not understand, but did not wish to. It had been curiosity and his dissatisfaction that had landed him there with visible scars and strange feelings.

Whatever that mask had done- he wished not to know.

The only thing he desired was his previous position as a doctor, a doctor that would occasionally save people from a gruesome death, a doctor that would have had to selfishly look on as one by one died from the Plague that could have been cured by a cure, his cure. It would have stung, knowing that he cold have prevented each and every death by erasing their deaths, but it would have sufficed.

Anything was better compared to the vague future that stood before him.

Yet, despite his will almost breaking, he stood up and began looking for civilization. Even if they wouldn't accept his ways, he would still try to save people. He was a doctor. He was raised by one to be one and he refused to merely look on, especially when he had paid a hefty price to discover the Cure.

Eventually, he had reached another village and set up shop there. He didn't have any supplies or a home, but his appearance alone secured the trust of the people living there. He was a plague doctor, one known to get rid of the Disease. What doctor would lie, let alone hurt his patient?

The man, of course, didn't plan on harming his patient, but found out quickly that touching a person ended up killing them. He had merely shook their hand and then the person had begun foaming at the mouth, scratching at their throat and coughing madly as the doctor and the dying man's wife looked on in horror.

Then, the man had died, white foam dripping out of his mouth in globs. The doctor was horror-stricken, morbid curiosity washing over him as he gazed at the corpse.

Had he already been sick? Was there a different plague roaming around?

The man quickly noticed that this curiosity wasn't his same childish curiosity that had surrounded him his entire life. No, it was morbid, much more dangerous and much more sharp than before. It dawned on the doctor that while the back of his mind felt sluggish and his emotions struggled to surface, his inquisitive thoughts were stronger and noticeable. He was almost terrified by the aspect.

What had the mask done to him? And, more importantly, _why_?

Why had the mask deceived him and caused him harm? Why had the church acted so rash and literally attempt to kill him? Why and how was he still alive? Why did the man die? Was it because of him?

The doctor vaguely recalled being pushed out by a screaming woman and barely remembered seeing her collapse with the same foam in her mouth as she made contact with his body.

He barely remembered walking into the brush and never returning to the village, the thoughts consuming him until he fell asleep and awoke again without a trace of worry.

The next several hundred years were repetitive, morbidly so. The doctor would attempt to help someone, save someone, only to end up killing them in a gruesome manner. He tried to revive them and succeeded every time, yet something made them act strangely.

They would always return to the living, yet they would refuse to leave his side, instead choosing to cling to the doctor and spout out nonsensical lines. The man would always question them, but they could never answer coherently. They would only make vague hand gestures and leave it at that.

They would eventually die off. The man barely registered it when his first patient died from old age. The woman had died at the age of fifty, that he knew.

The doctor didn't notice how fast time appeared to move until five of his other patients died as well, leaving him alone with a small, abandoned child. He swore that when he blinked his eyes, the child had turned into an adult and finally withered away too.

In fact, almost everything he knew was fading. His memories of becoming an official doctor were blurry and his childhood memories were fuzzy at best. He remembered the mask too, but couldn't remember exactly why he held such animosity toward it. All he recalled was how to Cure and how the Disease was everywhere and inside everyone and that he was the only one able to cure it.

The doctor watched on as countless empires, nations rose and fell and all the wars and destruction that took place and by World War One, he couldn't afford to care anymore about the dying soldiers or the constant explosions or the sore wounds, screaming, crying, the pure sense of mortality that took place in such was honestly confused as to what the Disease was anymore, but his curiosity was gone, faded, tattered.

The human mind was never meant to live for more than a thousand years and he was a testament to that fact.

When the SCP Operatives captured and imprisoned him, he didn't feel anything. No hatred, contempt.

No happiness, content.

Nothing.

Nothing stirred and not a single soul in the place managed to catch his eye and force him to speak. All except for two, and he only chatted with one to satisfy his slight curiosity about the place he was being imprisoned in. The other one was a thing riddled with the Disease.

It had been a mask. A smooth-speaking mask, a mask that promised him freedom and the ability to Cure safely and happily. The mask had brought forth a sense of familiarity and with a slight nudging, he could recall certain things in his far, far past.

He could recall old church hymns and how he was well-respected and loved when he had been an official doctor. He remembered how the man and the mask had been good friends and how well the mask had treated him and he smiled behind is mask because a wonderful thing had been sparked once again.

It wasn't morbid, oh no. He remembered clearly that this feeling had brought him to the Cure, to the only thing he was truly devoted to..

That mask, his only friend, had brought back his curiosity.

* * *

 _"Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back."_

 _(For the record, rats did die from the plague. He just didn't understand that at a young age.)_

 _This took me a day to finish. I had been planning this for at least a week now, thinking it over and over inside of my mind until I came up with a decent piece of writing. And so, 4,616 words of shit was born._

 _Anyway. Guess who gave me this idea to begin with? That's right; JOHN CENA._

 _All right, all jokes aside, thank you Ryin-Silverfish for giving me this muse. I was talking with xir about SCP-049 awhile back and recalled all of xir's wonderful theories. It sort of inspired me to write this. I also need to thank some other individuals (that I have forgotten to thank): Thank you TwinsanitySN, TinytheEspeon, ChuckNorris'ssister, Guest, and Tim for the long-standing support!_

 _And yes, Ryin, I am working on that 79682 fanfic. It's turning out pretty well._

 _Thank you for reading, and please review on how this went!_


	7. GOI (Short-Shot)

The Jailors are cold, complex people. They sought to learn, to understand the mysteries around them. Driven by curiosity, they search and wander until they come upon the sense of wonder that they are looking for. We understand them to a certain degree. Most are regular humans and, like us, are only driven by the desire to learn. However, instead of letting the world experience the mysteries they find, the Jailors lock the anomalies away and clasp their heavy metal keys to their being.

And, for that, we loathe them.

Their half-lidded eyes, their frigid expression, their sideways views. They are cunning, they are dangerous. So we wait. We cannot strike the Jailors while they wear their armored boots, their thick gloves. We will strike them when their keys grow heavy, bending and twisting their frame until they cannot stand.

We must remain a viper in the grass until they are eye to eye with the green and cannot run away from their sins.

The Bookburners, on the other hand, are savages. They do not understand our ways, nor do they wish to. From the moment they heard our name uttered, they sought to burn the books we have written, to destroy everything related to the anomalies we represent.

We loathe them as well, but with a deeper passion.

They fall prey to the sins they were born with. Bloodlust, wrath; two of the purest and most recognized of human sins. We pity them, in a sense. They will never understand the beauty mysteries hold. Even the Jailors understand and admit that mysteries are beautiful and full of wonder. However, the Bookburners do not, will never, and will sadly remain forever human.

We will never be afraid of them.

The Madmen were thought to be wanderers, once. They hold a curiosity similar to the Jailors', yet are more accepting of anomalies. We let them into our haven, invited them to join our group. We soon learned that they are flames, each one. They burn and destroy everything in their path, spreading chaos in their wake.

All bright, all mad.

They took some of our wanderers and twisted them into morbid shapes, molding and breaking their minds until barely anything remains. They are not cold; they are cruel. The Madmen are constantly at our doorstep, demanding to be let in and allowed to burn once more. We will leave them to their dark desires and hope that they will move elsewhere.

There are many other groups out there. Some understand our ways, some do not. We will remain watching, learning for all eternity. We refuse to be brought down by fear, bloodlust, madness. We shall remain. We shall wander. We shall learn.

We are the Wanderer's Library.

* * *

 _Just re-read the GOI groups again. I can understand why people are so interested in them now._


	8. Bookends

**[GAME OVER]**

 **[GAME RESTARTING...]**

 **[GAME LOADING...]**

 **[START]**

* * *

He can't exactly remember where it starts and where it stops.

The time loop was constant. Once he managed to get a so-called ending, he would be carted off to the beginning to start again. He wouldn't ever say that he 'started anew' or had a 'clean start', for the start was always stained with gore and mayhem. Ironically, he was always the cleanest in the beginning. The man wouldn't be covered in blood, sweat, nor grime. He would just be wearing a standard D-Class suit. Orange, tacky, but clean enough to be comfortable.

Unfortunately, the man would always have blood stained on him shortly after.

The man sighed, standing up in his room. The blank, saturated walls stared oppressively down onto him, the sheer cleanliness startling his tired mind. There was only one sheet of paper stapled to the wall, but even that was almost completely white as well. The tiny black letters were printed neatly onto the piece of paper, all of them stating the rules in multiple languages. The man didn't even need to look at it to know exactly what it said- he had already read it plenty of times before. Over and over again to steer the boredom away, perhaps a little bit of insanity. Just to prove a point to himself, he mouthed the words silently to himself before looking up. Of course, he had repeated them perfectly.

The man huffed and looked to the right, tapping his foot impatiently. The guards should come any minute now. They were always punctual. He never remembered a time where they didn't show up to drag him to SCP-173. He grimaced, his nose wrinkling in disgust at the thought of facing that statue again. Ugh. Hopefully he could persuade it into being captured by some 'Nine-Tailed Foxes' this round. It would certainly alleviate some of the pressure already stirring in the back of his mind. Oh god, just thinking about the hell he was going to go through again...

The man shook himself out of his stupor just in time for his cell door to slide open. He didn't even bother to face the man pointing a gun at him.

"D-9341, step out of the chamber and follow our instructions."

He didn't want to. He really, really didn't want to. Maybe he could convince the guard to let him stay for another few minutes-

The guard hissed at him. "D-Class, failure to comply will result in immediate termination. _Get out_."

The man sighed. Of course not. He complied, walking out of the room as slowly as he could without getting shot in the heart. He didn't wish to repeat the incident he had a few loops ago with this man. He had viciously attacked him when the man had failed to comply with his orders, too mentally exhausted after going through SCP-106's malicious time loop. Apparently, the damn demon had its own dimension that allowed it to do anything it wanted to whoever was trapped in there. And, because D-9341 decided to be a complete idiot, he willingly went into the stupid dimension and forgot to 'save' before leaping in. So, of course, the man became stuck in SCP-106's time loop for a long time before the demon decided it was done playing with him and let him out.

So, in other words, the man didn't want to tax any more of his sanity due to his unwillingness to walk normally.

D-9341 let out a little hum of disappointment and paced a bit faster, his legs already becoming numb as he came across an intersection. Another guard was positioned there, his eyes steely and his gun aimed directly at his chest. Now, the D-Class didn't have pleasant memories with this guard either, but at least they weren't tinged with physical pain. Rather, the man had encountered the guard in several time loops, wounded and weak from an attack by some hidden Chaos Insurgency agents. The guard, bleeding profusely and gasping from the pain, would sometimes mistake him for his wife in some sort of dying delusion. He would ramble on about 'how much he loved her' and 'how she needed to take care of Betty and Roger' who D-9341 could only assume were his children. The restless man would clutch at his hands, arms, in a feeble attempt to show affection. When D-9341 felt touch-starved or charitable, he would allow the touches, but most of the time he wouldn't.

It was too strange, feeling another being show him the least bit of affection. After staying in the time loop for so long, the man was honestly beginning to loathe any sort of physical contact. He was injured too many times, he supposed. The man glanced up at the guard, staring straight into his eyes one final time before turning. He wondered briefly if he would see him this round, though that thought only lasted a flicker.

It didn't matter.

Nothing truly mattered anymore.

The man walked heavily, a familiar nameplate appearing in the short distance. 'SCP-173', the statue. He could already visualize the hazard symbols, the warnings before he could physically see them. 'Moves when not under direct eye contact'. The guard pushed him forward with the tip of his gun, determined not to let the D-Class see the warning. _Too late_ , he snorted. D-9341 already intimate with what the statue could do, and he wasn't fond of it in the slightest. The thing was the biggest nuisance in the entire Foundation, right next to SCP-106 and the 'Nine-Tailed Foxes'.

Come to think of it, everything in the building was aggravating.

From the scientists to the experiments, everything was stained in blood. Nothing was safe anymore. Nothing was secure. The scientists and the guards may pretend to have everything in control, but, from prior time loops, the man knew that it was all a façade. A good façade, but an inefficient one nevertheless.

The test subject shook his head, getting a questioning comment from the guard behind him. "It's nothing, it's nothing," he replied in monotone, not assuring the guard but silencing him anyway. As he was pushed into the chamber, the D-Class noted that two of the scientists were on the ground floor. He already knew who they were and how they would end up, but he couldn't help but shudder a bit at the malicious intent flashing in their eyes. Most might not see it, but the man had spent enough time around murderous abominations to know when another being desired to see death.

The man was forced into a line with two other D-Class right beside him. One was worried, as usual. His form kept on twitching and writhing, as if it took all of his self-restraint not to bolt. The man wondered if he would. Sometimes, when he was prodded, he would scamper to the exit only to be ruined by bullets. Some cynical part of him wanted the man to run, at least to get the show on the road. Unfortunately, it seemed like he wouldn't do it.

The other D-Class, a female, seemed to be a little troubled, but held the most hope out of all of them. It was glinting off her eyes in shining beacons as if maybe, _maybe_ she would somehow survive the situation. A phantom feeling of sadness filled D-9341's heart, but quickly subsided. The emotion had been felt too often to actually feel real anymore. Now, a hollowness consumed the man as he glanced at the hopeful woman. She was going to be the first to die.

With a metallic shriek, the door in front of them opened. It lifted up quickly, shuddering at the beginning before sliding smoothly upward. A few of them cringed at the sound, but the man did not. Instead, he immediately locked eyes with the statue in front of him.

As always, dread encompassed the man immediately. Despite not having any sort of functioning eyes, he knew that the statue was leering directly at him. It didn't surprise him, honestly. The man suspected that the statue was aware of the time loops like SCP-106 was. Maybe it didn't remember the exact details, but it knew that the man was the cause of the flux in time. That was probably why it never aimed for him at the start. After all, it did always kill him first when the time loops first began, didn't it...?

The man's hands twitched.

Well. He could always test, couldn't he?

"D-Class, step forward."

D-9341 took a step forward, a look of resignation crossing his features. The other D-Class followed hesitantly behind, trailing into the room after him. They stepped over the blood and shit and made noises of disgust, but the man didn't complain. Without hesitation, he stepped into the disgusting piles, the liquids staining his clothes. He stared directly at the abomination in front of him, his face taut. He heard the metal door slide closed behind them, letting out a little bang as the tip hit the bottom. The other two cringed at the sound.

"Look directly at SCP-173," the voice ordered. The woman gave them both a puzzled look. The man let out a grumble.

"D-9340, look directly at SCP-173." The woman winced and proceeded to stare intently at the statue. D-9341 tried his best not to blink, waiting at time ticked patiently by. Soon, the door would open. Soon, he would be able to test his theory. Sure, he would be even more tired the moment he woke inside his white cell, but what was the harm? He could never truly die.

Just as predicted, the door screeched open a few seconds later. The people murmured in confusion as the voice told the D-Class to stay in place. Now, the man knew several things could occur. Should one of his D-Class companions make a run for it, they would survive SCP-173's attack and manage to get through at least a bit of the containment breach. However, if they were too jittery or simply did not run at their full potential, they would either be murdered by the Scip or the guards stationed above. Should the scientists attempt to intervene and command that the D-Class step back, then they are the first ones slaughtered and the rest of the D-Class are spared from the Scip. They would usually create a temporary team that would either be deconstructed from the their differing personalities or a sudden death. The man really hoped that this wasn't the case; he didn't like working with the other two D-Class in the slightest. Not that they weren't decent people- they weren't chosen from prisons, after all. But really, he didn't want to deal with the emotional strain of 'getting to know them' again only for them to be killed by some idiotic decision or another. It was a far too common occurrence.

Thankfully (at least, as thankful as he could get), the universe decided that this round was going to be a standard one. The lights flickered quickly, once, twice, thrice, each time the statue murdering a person. Of course, the bright woman had her neck snapped first, her eyes still hopeful despite the terror glazed permanently into them. The jittery man lied right next to her, a small current of blood erupting from where his spine had pierced his skin.

The man, determined to have his half-hearted curiosity quenched, turned and ran straight toward the statue as it snapped the neck of the second researcher, the first one dead on the floor. He could already feel his skin prickling uncomfortably as he sensed an inhuman eye gazing intently at him. The man immediately stopped in his tracks, counting to three. The lights flickered off again, encasing him in darkness. D-9341 heard the tell-tale signs of scraping concrete and tensed, expecting the statue to assault him for being this close.

The statue, however, did not choose to attack him. The screeches and spray of bullets above him told him that. SCP-173 had not snapped his neck, which meant that the statue did not desire to kill him. At least, not yet. It probably wanted to get some sort of revenge, the man mused tiredly as the screams were cut off with a loud snap. The lights flickered back on more permanently.

D-9341 glanced around the room, eyes tiredly tracing the slumped forms of the corpses, the shit and blood staining the hardened walls. His mind barely registered in the disgust anymore, which he found at least a bit relaxing. Hatred, disgust, and resentment had completely consumed his mind as of late. He was being too harsh on himself and on others. As a former researcher, the man knew how taxing such stress could be, as well as what it could do to the psyche. That's why so many poor researchers such as himself were torn away from their work and into this hellish life.

You know what? He mused to himself, sitting down. I don't want to go adventuring today. It would be too much work. Besides, a few minutes of peace and quiet wouldn't hurt him. He needed this small release before one of the Scips started to hunt him down. No doubt SCP-079, the computer, already knew where he was. It was probably sending a menacing Scip his way.

And, as always, D-9341 was correct. A few minutes after he wound down, a dark hand slowly emerged from behind him. The sound of warping made itself known, but the man elected to ignore it. He was too tired. _So, so tired_. One experiment had already torn his will to go on into the breach. Maybe next time he'll be more refreshed and prepared. Yes. Of course he would be. The man slid his eyes shut, sighing at the darkness.

His darkness became permanent with the slash of a decaying hand.

* * *

 **[GAME OVER]**

 **[GAME RESTARTING...]**

 **[GAME LOADING...]**

 **[START]**

* * *

D-9341 found himself staring at a white ceiling. His jumper was clean, pristine almost. He couldn't feel any sort of grime staining his clothes. He momentarily closed his eyes.

He supposed that he was fine enough to deal with the breach now.

* * *

 **Thank Ryin for this piece of shit and their essay about perspectives.**

 **It's called "How not to Evil in Foundation-verse" if anyone was curious, and it's a damn good essay.**

 **That produces shit like this. Not something to be proud of Argento. Not something to be proud of.**

 **So, yeah. I was reading the tv tropes for the game- as well as some weird fanfics (cough, my own)- and I always found it peculiar that authors always tended to write the protagonist as some hopeful young woman or some nervous man thrown into time loops. I always saw them as a tad unrealistic- I mean, if you could never fully die, then why would you be hopeful? Why would you be that afraid? You would have a bit of hope, seeing as you could never die, but you wouldn't be that hopeful in an endless route of carnage and pain. When all four endings are bad endings, why would you hope for the future? Similarly, you would probably be afraid of pain and death, but after seeing the same thing over and over, you probably wouldn't be afraid of everything. If you can never die, then the only things that should technically be feared are emotional and physical pain, emphasis on emotional. Then again, depending on personality, people can react differently. But to a normal person? They would probably only become tired, especially if they were former researchers. Apathy does wonders to the brain.**

 **So whatever. I hope you enjoyed reading!**


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